Estoy buscando agua.

My co-resident sat on the edge of the bed in the call room. Voice raised, hands wringing, and eyes darting amongst us he recounted to us step-by-step the events of that night. It wasn't supposed to happen. It was finally someone that wasn't supposed to die. And yet despite valorous efforts, another life was claimed by the virus. He wasn't taking it well. Confessed he hadn't slept since and was getting by aided with large amounts of alcohol. To make matters worse, to add insult to owned responsibility, he had been thrown under the bus by our Attending.

None of this is new in the life of a surgical resident. This is not an easy path, its not pretty and there are no flowers. Death, responsibility, blame, betrayal, we encounter it all. Deal with it all in our individual ways. But my co-resident's response and struggle with this specific event, is an illustration of what I have been trying to define since the beginning of March.

It is raw heightened and vulnerable emotion on display. It is the inability to compartmentalize fast enough and mental exhaustion brought on by the onslaught of these wildfire emotions. I still can not define it, nor can I explain it. Whether due to so many unknowns, so much change so quickly, or simply due to isolation, this is a very emotional time in the healthcare field. If you'd care to do a google search for frontline testimonies, you can quickly find videos of professionals from all over the world. They are in tears, many of them begging for care and caution.

The other day a few of us rode the elevator with one of the psychiatrists at the hospital, who slowly looked from one to the next and asked how we were. We of course brushed it off, answering a one word "good" before exiting on our floor. But I felt the earnestness and purposefulness in her tone with that simple question.  And I wondered what influx our psychiatry colleagues are seeing. PTSD? substance abuse? suicidal ideation? I don't doubt it, one bit.

Prior to 2020, the longest period I had gone without being able to attend church in person was six weeks. At which point, my bones feel dry as dry described by Ezekiel. There is a strength and nourishment from simply being surrounded by loved ones of Faith that is not provided listening from a distance. I always subconsciously knew it, but am now forced to admit how heavily I relied on those monthly trips to church. Seeing my brothers and sisters in person, their actions resembling Jesus, and being reminded of what kind of person I, myself, desire to be. It has now been about double the amount of time, and without a doubt, the longest I have gone without being able to attend church in person. And, I am finding just how quickly dry bones can catch fire. A lit match can spread like a wildfire in this environment, and before I knew it I found myself standing with unlit match in hand wanting nothing more than to strike a spark and watch the flames burn.

Don't worry. I caught myself, and laid the unlit match back down again. But it was an eyeopener for me, a realization of just how dangerous my viewpoint and reliance on church had been.  Not a bad viewpoint, just that it is dangerous to allow dry bones lie waiting for rain.  Especially when He is our  living water, and openly provides a stream in the desert and manna from heaven as needed. He allows me no excuse. This is the time, amidst these COVID wildfires, to lean on Jesus and to love those streams in the desert as it may be my future could be this isolating as well. Only God knows his purpose for me. And, when I am able to attend church again, whether next month, three months, next year... I will throw my arms back and enjoy the waterfall that is my family of Faith like never before.

Much Love and Prayers.